


when is a monster not a monster?

by supersonica



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Godzilla AU, Sacrifice, but like in a bad way, godzilla frumpkin, spoilers for godzilla 2, this is ripped from godzilla 2: king of the monsters, this is very short and also sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 01:52:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19219195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersonica/pseuds/supersonica
Summary: A human has come to help Frumpkin.





	when is a monster not a monster?

**Author's Note:**

> I went to see the new godzilla movie and cried like a baby when dr serizawa Did That 
> 
> so obviously I had to vent my feelings through critical role, right?

The human's hands are warm.

 

He can feel them, shaking, touching the side of his face. The human is so small that it must reach up to brush its fingers through his fur, but it strains its arms anyway, though it can barely breathe. 

 

It runs its fingers through his fur, the way he has seen humans do with small animals when they try to calm them. Or maybe, when they try to calm themselves. 

 

He thinks the human is trying to pat him. 

 

If it were anyone else—any _ thing  _ else, trying to claim such an intimacy with the King of the Monsters, he would not allow it. If anything else had dared come so close while he was resting, hurt and pained and bleeding, he would not allow it. Certainly not something so small and so weak as this human, who has no claws or sharp teeth or even, it seems, any of the weapons its kind are so fond of. 

 

It would be so easy to break this human's skull with the tap of a claw, or to brush him off into the fiery abyss that surrounds them. He could even bite the human's head off, at this close distance, and swallow it down the way he has done with so many of his own kind.

 

But he will not hurt this human, because this human is  _ his _ .

 

One of the many things humans have never understood about him and his kind is just how good their hearing is. The monsters of the feywild, those that slumber in the earth and in the sea and in the ice, can hear an ant being stepped on from a continent away, if they choose. They are— _ he  _ is—certainly capable of hearing what loud, boisterous humans say about him in the not-privacy of their castles. 

 

_ "You would keep him as a pet?" _

 

_ "No—we would be  _ his."

 

The human was right—they  _ are  _ his pets. His strange little companions on this even stranger planet. He watches them, from high in the air or from far in the distance—watches and learns and, most recently, loves. He loves these bizarre, tiny, illogical little things, he loves how much they  _ want  _ and how much they  _ try,  _ and how much they fight against the world they live in. The red-furred human was right, they are his pets. They are his to take care of, and his to protect. And this little one, with red fur on its head and intelligent blue eyes—for a given measure of intelligent— _ this _ one is his favourite. 

 

This one asked them to spare him, this one tried to help him. He knows to the humans, with their ridiculously short lifespans, he must seem a monster—to be feared, protected  _ against _ , not protected  _ from _ . And yet. 

 

And yet this one has come to help him.

 

He can see the ritual spell set up in the middle of the plateau, and he knows what this is.  _ Life Transference.  _ It will drain all the life from a caster, and give it to something else. The human— _ his _ human—is giving up its life to heal him. And rather than screaming, or fighting, or wailing, as humans are wont to do when facing death, this one has moved closer to the creature that will kill it, and is pressing its body against his blood-matted fur.

 

It is speaking, too, in that small, warm voice it has. 

 

"I do not know if you can understand me," it says, and he thinks it might be crying. "But if you can, I—I would like to say thank you. You have taught me many, many things, and you have protected us for so many years, so. Thank you, Frumpkin."

 

_ Frumpkin.  _ That is the small name the humans gave him, so that they could talk about him. He does not understand why the humans care so much about what things are called, but it seems very important to them.  _ Frumpkin  _ was given to him by the favourite human, so he will accept it as a gift. It is much like when subservient animals bring their masters dead birds, he thinks. 

 

He does not know how to speak back to the human in a way it can understand, so instead he turns his face to nuzzle it in a way he hopes it will like. There are many things he would like to say to it, if they had the time and the resources to communicate like the intelligent creatures humans may one day become. 

 

_ Thank you for trying to help me.  _

 

_ Thank you for believing I want to protect you.  _

 

_ You have a good heart.  _

 

_ I love you, little one.  _

 

He makes a low sound from deep in his throat, and hopes that it conveys some of the affection he feels for the human. 

 

"I am sorry for everything we have done to you," it says. It is truly crying now, irregular sobs muffled by his fur. "We have— _ gods _ . We nearly killed you, and you were only trying to help us. I'm so sorry, Frumpkin, I hope one da—" It cuts itself off, hacking out a cough, and a small piece of metal that it seemed to have been holding clatters to the ground. The ritual circle behind it begins glowing more brightly. 

 

It is beginning to die, but it still clings to his fur. "I hope one day we can earn your forgiveness." It finishes, looking up at him with watery blue eyes not so unlike his own. 

 

"Goodbye, my old friend."

 

The eyes glow impossibly bright for a moment, brighter than any human's eyes ever glow naturally, and then—   

 

The human's hands are cold. 


End file.
